The first harvest was looming, and my dreams became bitter tea steeped too long in golden light, juniper berries, mountain winds, and resurrected childhood memories..
A faint but persistent sourness in the once-wholesome brine of the sea cast a sudden grief spell upon my cracking eggshell heart, and I summoned..
Holding my grief like a slow-dying hatchling, I sought out the wisdom of the pipe-smoking hag. My plans were to prostrate myself at her feet..
The silver tongue of that thinning moon was licking me in just the right places, and I crept from my bed like a lust-drunk and..
A midnight fit, it was. A touch of early-spring fatigue salted with a good deal of extrasensory indulgence sent me straight to a well-attended grief ritual for this, our most beloved world. Here, I came upon an ominous spirit..
These are the days of the late-winter ache, and I’ve learned to hear the haunted call of those never-born-always-dead hags who are wiser than I..
Before I start writing this blog, I want to get a few things out of the way. I speak for no one except myself and..
I wouldn’t bother her. Not today. Best keep those formalities tucked away in your pockets for those mannerly friends blessed with visions tamer than hers,..